More Dispatches from the Seedy Underbelly of Crime
I just got back from Quizno’s which means: disgusting taste in my mouth. My mouth taste like a rotton mushroom. Who wants kisses?! Woooooooooo! Anyway, I bought a Dew to fix the taste issue, and when the bottle splashed down in the dispenser area of the machine, it reallysplashed down. As in, my hand and forearm got wet. It’s like the Mountain Dew bottle took the log ride on its way down. FLOOOOOOOSH!
The wet doesn’t smell like soda either. It’s water.
As indicated in the comments of my last post, Amish has been contacted about Brraaaaaaaainsfest 2005. And he, like my old college buddy Mandrake Flynn, is in. So in.
That just means that we’re waiting on Wes. Wes, you son of a whore.
…
One of the problems in the me/Alyssa relationship was that I didn’t feel I got to see my friends enough. She didn’t beat me, or chain me down, or slip on thigh-high leather boots, or…wait, that’s not where this is going. She didn’t chain me to the apartment or anything, but when she was around I felt like I should be with her, and when I did have time to myself I always ended up going through this list of backed up projects which (I hoped) would be better for my sanity than another night of Budweiser-fueled karaoke.
So anyway, one day the friends issue came up (we were drinking). “And Bil!” I said. “I never see Bil! Fuck!” (I’m sure it came out a lot whinier).
Months later, after we broke up, I was planning the Royal Mile/2 TV Halo shindig (two parties at my place ago) and Alyssa asked who was coming. I rattled off the list.
“Oh? Not Bil? Not PRECIOUS, PRECIOUS BIL?!?!”
I just now got her permission to tell that story.
[addendum: she put this story on her own blog a few weeks ago. I scanned it and said something like
"You spelled his name wrong! There's only one L!" And proceeded to stick my tongue out, or perform some other juvenile gesture.
"No I didn't," she said, and it's true, she didn't. Damn.]
…
I probably linked to this back in the day, but in case you didn’t read it: Ask a Former Professional Literary Agent. It doesn’t really get good until this one.
The wet doesn’t smell like soda either. It’s water.
As indicated in the comments of my last post, Amish has been contacted about Brraaaaaaaainsfest 2005. And he, like my old college buddy Mandrake Flynn, is in. So in.
That just means that we’re waiting on Wes. Wes, you son of a whore.
…
One of the problems in the me/Alyssa relationship was that I didn’t feel I got to see my friends enough. She didn’t beat me, or chain me down, or slip on thigh-high leather boots, or…wait, that’s not where this is going. She didn’t chain me to the apartment or anything, but when she was around I felt like I should be with her, and when I did have time to myself I always ended up going through this list of backed up projects which (I hoped) would be better for my sanity than another night of Budweiser-fueled karaoke.
So anyway, one day the friends issue came up (we were drinking). “And Bil!” I said. “I never see Bil! Fuck!” (I’m sure it came out a lot whinier).
Months later, after we broke up, I was planning the Royal Mile/2 TV Halo shindig (two parties at my place ago) and Alyssa asked who was coming. I rattled off the list.
“Oh? Not Bil? Not PRECIOUS, PRECIOUS BIL?!?!”
I just now got her permission to tell that story.
[addendum: she put this story on her own blog a few weeks ago. I scanned it and said something like
"You spelled his name wrong! There's only one L!" And proceeded to stick my tongue out, or perform some other juvenile gesture.
"No I didn't," she said, and it's true, she didn't. Damn.]
…
I probably linked to this back in the day, but in case you didn’t read it: Ask a Former Professional Literary Agent. It doesn’t really get good until this one.
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